


Can't Take My Mind Off of You

by greengrapegaze



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional, Emotions, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, His Last Vow Spoilers, Hurt, Loneliness, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Tense, Pining, Post-His Last Vow, Pre-His Last Vow, Sad, Sad Ending, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Whump, Unrequited, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, i'm not sure what else I could tag this, if you have suggestions, jim moriarty mentioned, john watson mentioned, mary mortsan mentioned, moriarty mentioned, please tell me, unrequited sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greengrapegaze/pseuds/greengrapegaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One can only equate the feeling of being in love and alone to tendrils of ice wrapped so tightly around a heart just waiting to burst. A sensation of being cold though one's body temperature is much warmer than would suggest-<i>it's all in the head really</i>. It always was and so it shall always be. </p><p>For what reason should it be anything else but unrequited? <i>For what reason would John Watson love Sherlock Holmes?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Take My Mind Off of You

John Watson was wrong. Love had never been a mystery to one Sherlock Holmes. He knew it’s powers-knew the bitter reasoning behind the _paralytic_ all too well. It was all just chemistry; incredibly simple, yet very destructive. In his time with the army doctor, Sherlock had learned the many types of love; obsessive, selfish, blind, and then the true of heart. The last being rarest of them all, the brunet never expected to actually participate in it. _Oh_ , he knew the game, the risks and the advantages, and he had played with every intention to win. He’d done it before with The Woman, how could he not assume he would do so again with one ordinary John Hamish Watson? Be as it may, it was a much more complex battle, for now he was fighting with just himself.

The game had begun slowly with a delightfully confusing buildup. A peculiar warmth would build in his gut, his lips would tremble with the want to smile, and he would find himself unable to abolish such ludicrous reactions. He was only able to ignore it by banishing it off to one corner of his mind palace and artlessly locking it away. But then it began to fight back...

Theories would rise from their cages, _nit picking_ and _niggling_ at the forefront of his mind. He neglected each siren’s call to entertain them knowing full well what would happen if he did; he’d never succeed in getting them to stop. His emotions were persistent, and his thoughts seemed to scorn him by joining his heart. No longer was it logic versus _feeling_. Truthfully, he never had a chance. Especially after he let his guard down enough for his inner demons to pounce. They tore their way through each barrier, memory to memory altering to be seen in a different light, and then it was far too late. The cards had been exchanged, the tables turned-love blossomed in the acerbity of a fragile heart.

It wasn’t just fantasies- _oh no_ -fantasies were things unable to become reality. No, what he began to obsess over was all within a few seconds of distance. And Sherlock began to suppress _every_ urge. The ones that beckoned him to drag spindly twitching fingertips over exposed tan flesh and the compulsions to test or catalog the taste and texture of chapped lips. He was even rejecting the impulse of _buying milk_ for John’s convenience. But mostly, Sherlock pushed _himself_ to never crumple at the burning constriction and tension of sternum and heart. And how wholly absurd that his heart could _physically_ ache! 

Yet somehow, it did… Stormy blues would land upon nervous alabaster features, and it would merely worsen. The ability to breathe would suddenly be beyond him, and the caress of anguished realization would rupture each composure into jagged shards of self hatred and dejection. For surely Sherlock Holmes could never live ‘ _Happily Ever After_?’ It wasn’t in his history, and so it couldn’t be in his future. He would die young, whether by addiction or his own idiocy, the details of it would not be divulged. He didn’t care about death, not really. Dying was so simple, life so meager and _dull_ , but there was one thing- _a person_ -he couldn’t dare to leave behind.

He never realized how full love could make him feel. How adored and _gorgeous_ it truly was. While he believed the poets over exaggerated, Sherlock was finally able to understand just a modicum of their reasonings. He would fall so greedily into its trap, that somehow… _Somehow_ it would win. How could it possibly take him apart so thoroughly? How could _one_ man change everything? How could he ever see anything the same way again?

The transition really was nothing more than an epiphany. John was standing in the kitchen preparing their tea and the sheer _domesticity_ of the situation grasped onto a wish of forever. That nothing ever change within their private routines reserved only for them. His heart squeezed, palpitating a treacherous rhythm, and Sherlock became aware of just how much he adored the man that wore frumpy jumpers and typed with only two fingers. No more was Sherlock Holmes dedicated to just his work or intelligence. No longer would he focus on experimentations and manipulation. Sherlock Holmes would now ensure that John Watson smiled or laughed more often than naught. 

It worked for quite some time, but the days began to go by with remorse mortification for the thoughts that blossomed like weeds in a once immaculate garden. Cases brought them ever so close, words became misplaced or over analyzed, and then John’s dating habits seemed to pick up. Women flocked, eager and all so willing to date such a handsome veteran and doctor. Some succeeded in a interminable relationship longer than two months, but all flaunted to the very fact that they could enjoy what he could never have. Each night John prepared, changing into his date shoes, trimming, and taking more than excessive care with his appearance, and every night Sherlock observed from the side. 

It was miserable- _pitiable_ -and the man _loathed_ every single bit of it. Some days he would fill with an inexplicable amount of rage; hands balling into fists and words terse. On those days, he would succinctly deduce every slice of information on John’s dates that he could. And when the man grew irritable and _snippy_ from the exchange, flouncing off with a shout of ‘ _piss off_ ’ or ‘ _not now_ ,’ Sherlock would overflow with a myriad of emotions then suddenly become hollow with guilt and self hatred. The other days were spent in silence and passive bouts of sulking and discounts of John’s presence. Despite such actions, none eased the lurching buzz of loneliness that collected inside him.

Desperation for a relief that would cease to come dug into the core of his being. One day he would no longer harbour such bitter and erring emotions. John would cease his influence on his person and he could return to the rigidity of an addiction to puzzles and danger. It was what kept him stable- _knowing_ that _one day_ he would no longer endure loving a man that would never love him back.

So he worked, and hissed and spit, spouting such hurtful words to keep others at bay. He dove into cases with foolish abandon as if there wasn’t meant to be any regards for his body. It was all transport and it had betrayed him anyhow. And should anyone dare to threaten the short blond army doctor that had ruptured his resolve, he rose with a fierce determination for blood and repentance. No one would even dare to think of harming the man lest they receive retribution. 

It went on that way until one man hungry for attention forced his final composition. Years of separation, guilt, and want kept him alive. A brusque voice full of longing pushing him to strive for more. _Pushing_ him to come _home_ - _home_ to 221 B where the patterned paper had begun to detach from the walls, _home_ where the fetid scent of formaldehyde and tempting concoction of milk and tea thrived, and _home where John Watson waited_. It was his motivation to survive the deconstruction of Moriarty’s web and his crutch for when he was captured before finally returning to the heart of London. 

_Home just didn’t exist any longer._

Standing to the side watching the man he loved cater to someone else tore Sherlock apart. It broke every chord, every note, and every last bit of of hope he had dredged up in the years of sacrifice for the people he cherished. It very nearly destroyed Sherlock Holmes, and it was only by the cruelty of the universe that he survived. 

John’s chair was the first to be moved. He had debated on tossing it, or seeking comfort in it’s destruction, but he had been unable to bring himself the strength to do more than move it from his sight. From there, the brunet had attempted to clean each nuance _and_ surface of the flat to remove every last bit of John’s presence. However, he found that he could only sit down and stare into the kitchen as memories besieged his attention. Many of which were of John just making tea or preparing their plates for supper. Sometimes, when he felt nothing more than acrimonious decumbency, he would imagine their arguments and John’s frustrated chidings. It never brought him the comfort he vainly sought for. Just a severe _numbness_ that reminded him of the hollowness of his heart.

The hidden presence of the chair did not last very long as Mary and John acclimated him to their busy lives. Dinners were scheduled, meetings were held in advance for the planning of a _happy_ and _healthy_ marriage, and Sherlock could do no more than smile and give a quick _leveled_ deduction for aid. No one seemed to notice the tight stretch of coral lips, or the despondent luster in his typically sharp cerulean eyes. The genius was wilting; consumed by a caustic spiral of jealousy and forlorn yearning. Yet he never uttered a _word_ , keeping a strong persona until he was home alone. 

_No_. Not _home_. Home departed with a beautiful woman on his arm and a loving smile full of adoration for someone other than _him_. It was what he left behind as he stood before a crowd in the dark, violin poised beneath chin and above collar to play his final vow. The words escaping him in the only way he could accurately articulate them; as a song beginning with one and ending as the same once again. No longer was it John Watson and Sherlock Holmes against the world, but simply the one and only consulting detective battling with himself. 

And as he left that night, seeking the comfort of an old traitorous friend, relief found him in a quietly savage high only to abandon him as he retreated to the flat that was only a ghost of what had long ago been home. It haunted him with memories and fantasies, bombarding him with questions based solely off of his pitiful and unflagging pinning. Bitterness and dejection swirled in his gut as the silence built, but he made no move to force torturous screeches from his violin, nor did he attempt to distract himself with experiments and cases. He simply remained sorrowed and despairing, arms wrapped protectively around his middle as he curled inward. There was _one_ question that continuously plagued his mind as he sat in his chair with a desolate gaze on the empty seat across from him. _One_ question that elicited distress and volatile abjection within him. It was a question to smother even the _smallest_ ember of hope... 

_For what reason would John Watson love Sherlock Holmes?_

**Author's Note:**

> Before I say anything, I wish to thank Stuperbee and Variously-Stated (especially Variously-Stated because she made me feel more confident on the second half of what I had written), on tumblr for being wonderful betas. I know there is one more person that I am missing, and I'm terribly sorry but your URL has slipped my mind!
> 
> I actually had the first bit of this written for nearly an entire month, maybe even more, before I turned back to writing it. I was avoiding writing the actual angst simply because unrequited romance/pining/love/crush and so forth is something I know all too well. I do not remember initially why I had chosen to write this story as I never write angst, but it happened.
> 
> I do not like this fic and out of everything I have written to post on this website so far, it is the one I dislike most. I just don't feel as though I succeeded in portraying it as I wished to. I do not feel as though I gave unrequited romance/pining/love/crush any justice. So if the beginning or ending lack in quality or do not seem to work well together, it is because I rushed through the end so that I might simply post it. It's just really complicated. I may come back to edit, but I have completely given up on it. 
> 
> (reference) “I imagine John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that a disguise is always a self portrait, how true of you, the combination to your safe – your measurements. But this is far more intimate. This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head. You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you worked for. But you just couldn’t resist it, could you? I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof.”


End file.
